The Land that Breeds No Hero
by Harlecat
Summary: Peyton doesn't remember her life- she just remembers waking in a stranger's life, in a strange town, called Night Vale. No one is willing to give her any explanation of… well, anything. he only explanation she has is a tapes her "brother" gives her. The tapes of the old radio broadcasts. The only link to the place Night Vale used to be, before it became… this. So Peyton listens.
1. Chapter 1

**Before**

_"Unhappy is the land that breeds no hero." -Life of Galileo by Bertolt Brecht_

"Tamika, just before her arrest, calmly waved a heavily-notated copy of Bertolt Brecht's Life of Galileo. She then paraphrased the influential German playwright saying, 'Sad is not the land that has no hero. Sad is the land that _needs_ a hero.'" Cecil took a deep breath, and leaned away from his desk, drumming his fingers against it, before he spoke again. "An officer took the book and slid it into a plastic bag, as Tamika was handcuffed and led into the back of a bright yellow police cruiser with orange triangle logos.

"Night Vale… Night Vale." He closed his eyes. "I tried to tell you about this day. I was very clear. Tamika was very clear. We could have _done_ something, Night Vale, but _we_…chose not to. Not _one_ citizen outside of Tamika and her band of brilliant, brave, _children_ stood up to tyranny today! We _all_ chose to stand down, and _hope_ change would be won _for_ us, and not _by_ us! By someone else, we believed." Cecil bit his lip. "A hero, we believed. But belief is only step one. _Action_ is step two. Fighting for what you believe is step two. Solidarity is step two. Unity is step two. We did not take step two today, Night Vale! And now there will be _no_ step three! We have failed Tamika. But worse, we have failed ourselves."

There was a sound, and Cecil looked up. Two people had entered his studio. He swallowed. "I'm– um…I've got guests in my studio," he said quickly. His heart skidded to a halt. "I don't know how they undid my secret barricade made of cardboard signs that said _Keep out!_ and _Secret room!_ in all caps with an exclamation point, but it's my program director, Lauren, and some man I've never seen bef–" Cecil stopped. He squinted. "But no, I _have_ seen him before! Where have I seen you before?" He shocked his head to clear it, and turned back to his microphone as they started towards him. "They do not look happy, Night Vale. Lauren and the _stranger_-" he put emphasis on the the last word, staring into the _stranger's_ eyes "-are smiling widely, their teeth white, lips pink, their eyes full but tight, deep dimples making their tiny noses into parenthetical asides, _they are smiling_, but they look very unhappy." He inhaled sharply. _Just finish the broadcast, Cecil. Then you can go home. You can go home to Carlos and Khoshekh. _"Perhaps it is, uhh, time to sign off for the day. Um, I am sure to speak to you again very soon, listeners." He swallowed, glancing up at Lauren and the strange man, who had reached his desk. He lowered his eyes, staring down at the papers in front of him, and then back up. "Stay tuned next for the gentle sounds of forgiveness, and a lilting melody of wounds healing, and until next time, goodnight, Night Vale–" A hand grabbed him, and Cecil was yanked up. "Hey! _Hey!_ What are you– Ge–"

The microphone was knocked over. Cecil yelled, but the stranger- or was it Lauren?- yanked him back towards the door, muttering. "Hey!_ Hey_! Let go of me, get off, get-"

They yanked Cecil closer, and he recognized the voice, but he didn't know where _from_.

"Come with me, and keep _quiet," _he hissed.

"But- But I need to finish the broadcast-"

_"We have Khoshekh."_

Cecil's eyes widened. "B-but… the… I need to… I've got to."

The stranger pressed his lips to Cecil's ear (or, rather, the air near his ear). "A scientist went into the house in the development, and there's no one to open the door for him. It would be a _shame_ if no one was there to let him out! _Ever!_"

Cecil fell silent. The strange man pulled him through the door of the booth. He saw Lauren bend over and yank out a fistful of wires from underneath his desk. His breath caught in his throat.

That desk was his _life._

Carlos was his _life._ Khoshekh was. His. _Life._

_Night Vale_ was his life. Cecil bit his lip, and tasted blood.

It wasn't over yet.


	2. Chapter 2

_"A hero is someone who, in spite of weakness, doubt or not always knowing the answers, goes ahead and overcomes anyway." -Christopher Reeve_

_The night is cold. The night is dark. The night is everything a night is and isn't supposed to be._

Welcome to Night Vale.

_The girl squints and reads the words off the large, wooden sign. They are faded, and might have once been purple. The letters are arched up over a shape that looks something like an eye, and a city's silhouette. The edges are molding, and there is more text, but she can't read it. The sign desperately needs to be repainted, and it would probably help if it wasn't facing the sky. Someone ought to put it up on a stick, so drivers can read it, like the red metal sign a few miles back, whose white words proclaim _Route 800. Beware the Deer.

_After walking a little while longer, she sees why the Night Vale sign is down on the ground. There is a new sign up, one that says_ Welcome to the Greater Desert Bluffs Metropolitan Area, _across a picture of a sun. This one has bright paint and is planted firmly on the ground._

_The girl frowns at the sign. It does not feel right. The Night Vale sign did. It felt sad, and exactly right. And, as happy as this sign looks, it is wrong. The girl knows this._

_She also knows she is walking in the wrong direction._

But I keep walking, along the side of the two-way street with the chapped yellow paint, my feet catching on the side of the asphalt and the coarse sand, making different noises. _Thum-crunkle. Thum-crunkle._ Something howls, far away. I keep walking, and hazy lights appear in the distance. I have come far. Here I will stop.

_You are going the wrong way,_ I say to myself, and I keep moving. _Thum-crunkle._ The world around me is gray and dark. The little lights are closer, now, and they look bigger. I do not stop moving, even though my feet ache and my breathing is labored. My insides and her outsides are sore, my ears are numb and cold, and the wind stings my eyes. The lights take shapes, little squares and circles set against houses and homes. None of them are mine.

_The first building she passed was an Arby's, the sign glistening read. Several lights were resting in the sky above it. Not stars. That felt right. She knew it was wrong, but it felt perfect. Next, sprung up a police station with locked doors, an empty auction house, an old diner with neon lights that weren't turned on next to a bowling alley and arcade fun complex. A record store, a music store. City hall. A park. Tall black walls. A car lot. An empty trailers. Now the houses began. Some looked empty. She kept walking. Past more houses._

I stop in front of a white one, Number Three of Somerset. There is no car in front, the grass is dying, and the curtains are closed. The paint is chipped. There's a little crack in my heart. It is not supposed to be this way. The house next to it was not empty. There is a dusty blue car parked in the driveway, and a porch light is on. The grass is green, not like at Number Three, and a bicycle is tilted against the wall.

_A man appears in the window, and sees her watching the house. Their eyes meet, and the girl wants to walk inside, but no, she tells herself. This isn't her home. She is shouting it, inside her head._

It never was, was it? I don't remember. I can't remember. Everything before tonight is blurred. Was this house there? Were Number Three and Four of Somerset there? Were they?

No, I answer, because I am supposed to.

_The man in the window stares for a minute, then vanishes, and the girl starts to walk away. The man rushes out in slippers, a bathrobe flung over his boxers, and calls a familiar name. The girl keeps walking. She wants to come to him, she wants to walk into the house, but even though the name is familiar, it is not hers. This is what she tells herself._

_The man stops shouting, and goes back inside._

_The girl tries not to turn around. She succeeds._

I reach the end of Somerset, and turn onto Earl. I keep going, and I reach a house. The walls are yellow with blue accents, and my feet fall upon the gravel path between the grass and up to the front door. I feel odd, as I lift my hand and knock.

The door opens, and a woman, a little shorter than me, appears. Her face lights up. I do not recognize her.

"_Peyton!"_ she shrieks, and throws her arms around me. My eyebrows shoot up, and I lift my hands to hold her back. She is shaking. The woman kisses my face, and a man appears on the staircase and runs over to embrace us.

"Joseph! Joseph, it's Peyton!"

I look toward a boy, who looks older than me. He has dark hair and pale skin, and is reading a book on a window seat converted into a couch. He licks his finger, and turns a page.

I am supposed to speak to him.

"Excuse me," I say, and I untangle myself to walk over to him. I kneel on the ground next to him. "Joseph."

Without looking at me, he turns another page and says, "You weren't supposed to come back."

I open and close my mouth. What?

"My name isn't Peyton," I finally say.

"Yes it is. Peyton Wilson."

"I don't-"

Joseph looks at me in a way that tells me to fall silent. That night, I fall asleep in a bed I've never seen before in a room that Joseph claims in mine.

My name is not Peyton Wilson.


End file.
